


Higher Ground

by EmilianaDarling



Series: Building From the Ground Up [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Steve Rogers, Control Kink, Discussion of Past Suicidal Behaviour, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Ineptitude, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Somewhat unhealthy ways of dealing with conflict, Top!Bucky Barnes, gif warning, past depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“S’okay,” Bucky murmurs quietly, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the brush of Bucky’s lips against his ear, his breath hot against the side of Steve’s neck. There’s a hint of a grin in Bucky’s voice; amused affection and confidence and something heated beneath it all, a familiar tone from so long ago that makes Steve’s heart clench and his cock twitch helplessly in his jeans. </i>
</p>
<p><i>“S’okay, Stevie,” he says again, and Steve can </i>feel<i> the curl of Bucky’s lips against his throat when he smiles. His metal thumb is rubbing circles on Steve’s shoulder. “M’gonna take care of you.”</i><br/> </p>
<p>A year and a half after the events of <i>The Winter Soldier</i>, Steve's been acting recklessly. Bucky deals with it as best he can. </p>
<p>[This fic presents a self-contained story that can easily be read separately from the rest of the series.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Higher Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Higher Ground明日更好](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224881) by [mingmingmie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mingmingmie/pseuds/mingmingmie)



>   
>  Because apparently getting distracted in the middle of working on a longer piece is the perfect opportunity to write porny relationship fic, right? (I've been referring to this as my "Stucky emotions and sexytimes fic" on tumblr for weeks now.)
> 
> Thank you so much to my wonderful beta [StarkPanda](http://starkpanda.tumblr.com/), without whom I would still be second-guessing myself and finding typos throughout the story. I appreciate your encouragement, support, and stalwart commentary throughout even the most explicit sections of this story more than words can say. You're amazing, darlin'.
> 
>  
> 
> **ETA:** Although this fic was initially posted separately from the rest of the _Building From the Ground Up_ series for fear of disrupting the overarching narrative flow, in my head it exists in the same world as the other stories in the series. Since a number of people were asking whether or not it could be considered a sequel, I decided to officially include it.  <3
> 
> _Higher Ground_ takes place six months after the concluding scene of _Amidst the Rubble_.

It’s Saturday night, he’s barely managed to change out of his Captain America costume, and Steve is fairly certain that every inch of his body that is capable of aching? Aches.

Steve groans slightly as he climbs the stairs to his and Bucky’s apartment, clutching the railing a little tighter than usual. He’s just arrived back in DC, so fresh from the ride he can practically still hear the helicopter whirring in his ears, and there’s nothing he wants more in the world right now than a hot shower and a warm bed. The adrenaline has long since worn off, and right now Steve is painfully aware of every throbbing muscle.

The fight in Illinois hadn’t been all that dire – just some HYDRA engineer with a taste for robotics and serious delusions of grandeur, a minor scuffle at most. With Tony and Natasha there, it had been wrapped up quickly enough.

All the same, Steve is very much relieved to be home right about now.

He pulls out his keys as he reaches the top of the stairs, rubbing a hand over his sternum as he unlocks the door. None of his ribs are broken, but super soldier or not, there’s no way he’s getting out of this one without at least a little bit of bruising.

The lights are on when he pushes the door open and walks inside, which means that Bucky’s probably still awake.

“I’m home,” Steve calls out as he closes the door behind him, propping his shield up against the wall closest to the door. He shrugs off his shoulder bag with the majority of his costume crammed inside, dropping it onto the floor and making a mental note to deal with it later.

When Steve finally turns around to face the interior of their apartment head-on, he’s caught off guard to see Bucky standing silently in the living room. He’s wearing a pair of grey plaid pyjama bottoms and a tank top that technically belongs to Steve, one of the black ones he sometimes wears when he goes running with Sam. His feet are bare against the hardwood floors.

Bucky’s only a few yards away but he hasn’t come any closer; just stands there looking right at Steve with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Hey, Buck,” says Steve, offering him a weak but genuine smile. “How are y—”

The rest of the sentence is cut off, however, when Bucky strides forward, grabs the front of Steve’s jacket, and _slams_ Steve back against the wall.

It’s ruthlessly fast and entirely unexpected, and for a split second Steve’s whole body tenses up for another fight. His brain is crashing through thoughts as quickly as he can have them, _he’s having a flashback_ and _he’s lost his memories_ and _he was having a good day when I left this morning_ skittering through his head lightning-quick.

Heart racing, Steve is trying to figure out the best way to struggle out of Bucky’s hold and get to his shield without hurting him – when a few other little details start to register.

The first thing is that, other than shoving him up against the closest hard surface, Bucky hasn’t actually tried to hurt him in any substantial way. The Winter Soldier is fast and vicious; he wouldn’t get to this point without at least trying to throw a punch right after.

The second thing is that, no matter how hard and efficient the move might’ve been, there is nothing blank or brutal or pitiless about Bucky’s face right now. His eyes are flashing and his mouth is a thin, tight line and all of it – from the way his body is all crowded up against Steve’s to the look on his face – is 100% Bucky.

“What the _hell_ was that, Rogers?” Bucky snarls accusingly, and for the first time Steve registers just how furious Bucky is right now. He’s practically shaking with it, glaring hard and demanding an answer, and Steve genuinely has no idea what this is about.

Steve finds himself relaxing into his friend’s grip anyways; lets Bucky keep him there if he wants to. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier right now, after all, and there’s nothing to be gained by pulling away. He pushes the idle fantasy of a hot bath and a solid eight hours of asleep away for now, feels grateful that the rush of startled adrenaline has given him a second wind.

No matter what this might be about, there’s no place in the world Steve would rather be right now other than here.

“Bucky, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Steve, quiet and firm and trying to convey his earnestness with his eyes. He settles back against the wall, bracing himself for a long night and wondering distantly what could’ve possibly sparked this kind of reaction.

Bucky makes a frustrated noise in response, tilting his chin and pursing his lips in frustration. It gives Steve a second to take him in properly, eyes darting over the parts of Bucky he can see from this position. The hair that he's been growing out is pulled back into a messy ponytail, his pale blue eyes gleaming and his teeth gritted with fury. The way his whole body is thrumming with contained energy, his metal arm tensed and ready the way it is before he lashes out in an attack.

His hands are still fisted tight in the fabric of Steve’s jacket. 

After a long moment something _twitches_ in Bucky’s face, some change of emotions as he loosens his grip ever-so-slightly on Steve’s jacket. Bucky inhales deeply through his nose and lets it out a moment later, visibly pulling himself together.

“I saw you on the news,” says Bucky after a moment, speaking very slowly and clearly, as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid animal. “The fight in the town outside Chicago. That… robot thing.” His eyes narrow, and the look he gives Steve is full of bitter fury. “You used yourself as _bait_ , you idiot. You let it _charge_ you.”

Steve… blinks.

“… well, yeah,” Steve says stupidly, and he wants to wince at the clumsy bluntness of his own words. There problem, though, is that he has no idea where Bucky’s going with this. Bucky glares at him all the harder, and Steve gropes around blindly to find something to say to fill the charged silence. “I stopped it, though. It worked.”

For a second, Bucky just _stares_ at him incredulously.

“It worked,” Bucky repeats blankly, and when he speaks the words have a hollow ring to them. Steve is missing something, he knows he is, but for the life of him he can’t seem to figure out _what_. “It… worked.”

Steve shifts uneasily. “It  did,” he says, unhelpful and petty and sounding almost _childish_ to his own ears.

“It almost crushed you, you moron!” Bucky snarls back, his lips curling into a frustrated grimace. His grip tightens on Steve’s jacket. “I mean it: what the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

And something inside Steve… _snaps_ , a little.

Everything between them has already been difficult in the year and a half since Bucky’s been back, but it’s been even more tenuous since they shifted from being _friends_ to being something more complicated, something undefined. Since the day a few months back when Bucky had leaned in and _kissed_ Steve as though he had been given the chance to touch something precious, as though it had been something he’d wanted to do his whole life.

They’ve had to be even more careful with each other since then: clear boundaries set with explicit conversations, all of it so pointed and deliberate and grounded as much as possible in spoken communication. Because Bucky might be strong as steel in some ways but he’s twisted-up and shattered in others, and it wouldn’t be fair to pretend that what they have now is the same as what they could’ve had before the war. It _isn’t_ , it can’t ever be, and that’s okay. Steve’s okay with that, most of the time.

He’s been trying so hard not to push, not to take anything more than Bucky can offer, because being a year and a half out from Project Insight doesn’t mean that everything’s normal again. There are ups and downs and Bucky’s bad days are _bad_ and they’re both still figuring this out.

But right now all of Steve’s hard-worn instincts are _screaming_ at him to stand his ground, to dig in his heels and _fight_. Because Bucky looks furious at him the way he used to do when he’d drag Steve out of back alley scuffles by the scruff of his neck one time too many, familiar anger filtered through a new willingness to strike out with fists and snarled words, and suddenly Steve isn’t thinking about what Bucky needs anymore.

All he’s thinking about is _fighting back_.

“So what if I did?” Steve bites back, and he can _feel_ the way his face is twisting up as he speaks; going from _stunned and confused_ to _defensive and angry_ in less time than it takes to flip a coin. “Stark needed a distraction so that he could get in a good hit. It was easier if I used myself as bait, so I did.” He twists under Bucky’s hands a little, looks at him with righteous frustration pounding in his ears. “Why are you so upset about this?”

For a long, hard moment Bucky just _looks_ at him. Holds his gaze in a way that’s absolutely uncompromising and unreadable – before he pulls back all at once, hands releasing Steve’s jacket and stepping backwards with a controlled fluidity he never had in the days before the fall.

Bucky just looks at him, his mouth a hard line and his face looking too angular in this light, and Steve just stares right back. The comforting softness of his sleep clothes are at sharp odds with the rigid lines of his body, with the deadly seriousness on his face.

“The whole world just watched you throw yourself in front of a mech the size of a six story building,” says Bucky at last, his words very slow and very deliberate. He raises his metal hand and gestures  vaguely to the television set in the corner of their living room. The movement makes the metal catch the light for a moment, almost glowing with the lamplight.

“You came _this close_ ,” Bucky hisses, holding his thumb and index finger a few inches apart, “to getting crushed by that thing. And it wasn’t Stark or Romanoff  that got you out in time, it was the sheer goddamn _luck_ of those electric cables tangling it up long enough for you to crawl out of the way.” He lets out a humourless huff of laughter. “It was a stupid risk you and know it.”

“We’ve always taken risks!” Steve half-shouts back before he catches himself, closing his eyes for a second and taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. When he opens his eyes again Bucky is still glaring at him. “We take risks, Buck. That’s the life we lead – the life we _chose_. It was like that during the war and it’s like that now, and I don’t know why you’re getting so bent out of shape about this –”

“During the war we took risks when we _had_ to,” says Bucky very seriously, and there’s a weight to his voice that makes Steve’s mouth slam shut even though he wants to keep defending his point. “When there were lives on the line or there weren’t any other way to get the mission done.”

And for a second, Steve’s mind flashes over a dozen other arguments along this from back in the day; in their old apartment in Brooklyn and in grimy back alleys and parking lots and pulled off to one side in some stretch of European wilderness. Bucky is more hardened now than he was back then; more relentless, more dogged. He’s exuding a quiet dangerousness that hasn’t come out even when they’ve fought about other, far more serious things over the past year and a half, and something about that makes the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand on end.

This is different from the fights they used to get into about split lips and bruised knuckles and bullet wounds.

Steve just doesn’t know _why_.

Silent and unmoving with his arms crossed hard over his chest, Bucky looks at Steve with an indecipherable expression on his face for a very long time before he eventually tilts his head a little to one side.

“You were in the middle of nowhere,” says Bucky slowly, thoughtfully – as though something significant is occurring to him for the first time. He catches and holds Steve’s gaze. “The town was evacuated except for the media. There were no civilians to save, no one’s life on the line but your own. You didn’t _have_ to put yourself in harm’s way, but you didn’t even think about it. You just threw yourself in.”

And without even really knowing why, Steve’s whole body stiffens. Something vaguely uneasy comes over him, a baseless discomfort building up and expanding in the pit of his stomach.

He fights the urge to look away from Bucky’s hard stare.

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” says Steve with finality, just wanting to get _out_ of here, and there’s a small and childish part of him that feels unfairly hard done by. This isn’t what he’d expected to come home to, not even a little bit, and all of this is the last thing he wants to talk about right now. He shakes his head, knows he’ll regret walking out on Bucky like this in the morning, but right now he just wants to get out. “I’m going to bed.”

He turns on his heel to walk out of the room, jaw tight and fists clenched against his sides.

“I read that book Sam gave me, you know,” comes Bucky’s voice from behind him, dark and low but carefully neutral, and Steve _freezes_ mid-step.

He swallows.

“… what does that have to do with anything?” asks Steve after a moment. His voice is firm to his own ears but there’s a sickly uneasiness crawling up his throat, a growing discomfort with the way this is going.

He doesn’t have to ask which book Bucky’s talking about. It had been a gift for Bucky’s birthday a few months back, the event itself marked by nothing more than Sam and Nat coming over for dinner and a movie the way they’ve all done half a dozen times before. Bucky hadn’t wanted a big celebration, after all, and the fact that the number of people he was truly comfortable with could be counted off on one hand had somewhat limited the guest list anyways. _No need to get bent outta shape over something I only remembered having a couple months ago_ , Bucky had joked irreverently, easily, and Steve remembers forcing himself not to flinch at the words.

Sam had called it _a bit of light reading_ with a playful gleam in his eyes, had passed it off to Bucky unwrapped with one of those shining smiles on his face. A hard-cover book with a mostly-white cover, a small worn insignia in red, white, and blue – just like the one he had worn on his arm during the war – resting in the bottom right-hand corner.  The words _Portrait of America’s Hero: Steve Rogers from 1918 to the Present Day by Hannah Cabot_ inscribed at the top of the cover in understated black writing.

He doubts that Sam had actually known much of what the book had been about before buying it: it was a popular biography, was all, even more common to see in bookstores after the updated edition had been released with a section on Steve’s re-awakening in the modern world.

Steve’s been in the future for long enough to have a passing familiarity with at least a few of the scholars and historians who have made their careers out of studying his life and legacy, knows a couple of the big names and the theses they’re famous for writing about.

He’d never been able to get through one of Dr. Hannah Cabot’s articles online without back-buttoning out of them after only a few minutes, eyes squeezed shut and stomach churning with hollow sickness and far too much packed-down emotion struggling to break out of his chest.

“She talks about the plane,” says Bucky, and _that’s_ enough to make Steve turn around. Bucky’s still standing there, shoulders drawn up a bit but otherwise standing still, staring at Steve with those eyes that are always so much more expressive than his words. “The _Valkyrie_ , the one you crashed into the Arctic.”

“Bucky,” says Steve, half-warning and half-entreating. He tries to cover the tremor edging at his voice – from anger or fear or something else, he can’t tell right now. “Don’t.”

Bucky doesn’t even slow down. 

“She has the transcribed recording of everything you and Agent Carter said to each other before you went down. Brings in a first-hand account from one of the soldiers who was guarding the control room.” Bucky huffs out a humourless half-laugh, and the way he looks at Steve is pained and furious all at once. “You didn’t even _try_ to find another way out, did you? Didn’t try to land on the ice or get out with a ‘chute after pointing her at the ground. You just stayed on board thinking you’d be blown to hell and back.”

“ _Stop_ ,” says Steve roughly, and he _hates_ the vulnerability in his own voice right now. He shakes his head. “It – it wasn’t as simple as that. You weren’t there, Buck, there wasn’t _time_ –”

“On the helicarrier crashing into the Potomac,” Bucky cuts him off, and this time his voice is as hard and dark and cold as ice. His mouth twitches, eyes narrowing with unwanted vindication. “You were willing to let me kill you. You went up there _planning_ on letting me kill you.”

The words make Steve physically _flinch_ backwards, eyes widening and pulling away sharply like someone yanking their hand back after touching a hot stove, and no. No no no no no, this isn’t good at all, because they don’t _talk_ about this.

This is everything Bucky hates remembering most: more than the people they made him kill and the things that were done to hurt him and all the ways the Hydra made him into something less than human. More than anything else, how willing Bucky had been to hurt Steve – how _close_ he’d come to actually killing him – is something that Steve knows Bucky is still haunted by to this day. That even after all this time and growth and recovery, Bucky still wakes up in the middle of the night over this; drenched in sweat and lashing out and _screaming_ in Russian after nightmares about Steve bleeding out under his hands.

And there’s nothing Steve can _say_ to it, anyways, because they both know that what Bucky’s saying is true. Steve had let his shield slip through his fingers, had stopped fighting back for the first time in his life. Had been willing to let the Winter Soldier destroy him in every way possible if  it had meant not having to hurt his friend.

There had been two possible outcomes for Steve when he’d gone up onto that helicarrier: get Bucky back, or die trying. It had been as simple as that.

There’s a curl to Bucky’s lip now, a way that he’s holding himself with his arms crossed over his chest, and Steve realizes in a startled rush that whatever anger Bucky’s feeling right now, it’s directed inwards.

“You told me that you got low,” says Bucky quietly, bitterly, and for some reason he’s looking at Steve as though he’s never seen him before. “Months ago, you said – you said that when you first woke up here there were days when you didn’t know why you bothered sticking around at all.” He laughs, low and hollow. “I don’t think I was paying enough attention.”

The silence that follows this statement is heavy and horrible, and Steve feels as though the bottom has fallen right out of his stomach.

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve says after a moment, hoping he sounds authoritative and firm despite the empty, churning feeling in his gut. “It wasn’t…” He trails off, but the look on Bucky’s face makes it impossible to finish. Steve swallows.

“Look, I never did anything really stupid,” Steve insists after a beat, changing tracts because he needs Bucky to know that, and he can’t understand why Bucky suddenly looks so _sad_ when he says it. He pulls his mouth into a small smile, feels a little jab of distress when Bucky looks even less reassured as a result. “I never… _did_ anything to myself, all right?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yeah,” says Bucky bitterly after a second, and all at once his expression crumples. He’d looked angry before, but now Steve can’t pick out anything in his face other than wretched sadness. Bucky shrugs, shoulders deflating into something hunched and quietly powerless. “Yeah, instead you just went and put yourself in situations where it wouldn’t’ve been surprising if something had happened after all.”

There’s nothing either of them can say to that. Both of them remain silent for a few long seconds, Steve shifting uneasily where he stands and Bucky looking so _sad_ that Steve can’t seem to conjure up any words.

It’s not that what he’s saying is _wrong_ , really, but it’s… unpleasant. Makes the air feel thicker, makes Steve’s chest feel tight and uncomfortable. 

“Look,” says Steve quietly after a long pause, taking a step forward so that there’s a little bit less distance between them. His hands are down by his sides, palms flat and fingers extended in a way that he hopes looks soothing. “Bucky, look, it… got bad for a while, I’ll admit that. I’m not gonna fight you on it.”

Bucky huffs out a miserable little snort, and Steve takes another step forward.

“But it’s not like that anymore, okay?” Steve tries to continue, unable to find the words to say the things he wants to say. It’s… not something he’s ever talked about with anyone. Not like this; uncovered and exposed and all of the cards on the table. He presses his lips together, brow furrowed. “It’s better now. There’s… you, and Sam, and Nat, and I don’t – I don’t want to be anywhere that’s not here anymore, all right?”

Steve gives Bucky another weak smile, but Bucky just gives his head a tight little shake. It makes his ponytail twitch, makes a few loose strands of hair fall over his face.

“You’re still doing it, though,” Bucky insists, anger edging out the sadness in his voice. His metal fingers flex restlessly at his side. Clenching and unclenching, a fist and then loose and then a fist again. “Steve, you’re still – you’re still throwing yourself into danger when you don’t have to, being reckless when there ain’t no point.” He gives Steve a fierce look. “I think you’ve been doing it for so long you barely _notice_ anymore.”

And it hurts. It really, really does – because for a moment, Steve can’t believe how _helpless_ Bucky looks right now; how _lost_. As though he genuinely has no idea what to do or say to make the situation any better.

Guilt snags in Steve’s chest, sharp and dragging like knives over skin, because this is exactly what he had wanted to avoid. Bucky has enough on his plate; has enough of his own trauma to work through for multiple lifetimes, and the last thing Steve wants to do is give him anything else to struggle with. 

_Sometimes you just don’t want to bleed on other people_ , Sam had said to him once, voice contemplative and distant but sure of himself all the same, and Steve had understood what he meant with a bone-deep clarity that had rung in his ears for days afterwards.

“Bucky –” Steve begins, but to his surprise Bucky is already moving forward. Face hardened and grim determination flashing in his eyes, and before Steve fully realizes what’s happening Bucky’s right up in his space. Taking hold of his shoulders and _pushing_ him, making him stumble backwards until Steve’s back is pressed up against something hard and solid.

Until Bucky has him pinned up against the wall again.

It’s not as rough this time but it’s still firm, still solid; the hands on his shoulders firm and unyielding but careful in their deliberateness. Bucky’s face is real close to his now, crowding him in tight. The warmth of his breath is hot and real against Steve’s lips.

“Now you listen to me,” says Bucky, voice low and hard and trying very hard to sound dangerous, but with a jolt Steve realizes that there’s a slightly frantic look in Bucky’s eyes, a panic he can’t quite seem to stifle.

_He’s scared_ , Steve realizes dimly, not knowing quite what to do with that information. In a way, he isn’t used to this anymore. For all that Peggy and the Commandos had been painfully aware of Steve’s humanity even as they followed him into battle, people in the future don’t seem to have that same concern. Captain America is a legend, not a person; a part of history come to life rather than a human being who might get damaged or hurt.

On some level, Steve doesn’t remember what it’s like to be looked at like someone who might get broken as easily as anyone else.

“Listen,” Bucky growls, his voice hitching a little on the word. “You might’ve been able to pull bullshit like this before, but it _stops now_ , you hear?” He gives Steve a look that’s simmering with anger. “God knows I can’t stop you throwing yourself into danger, Steve, but I can damn well make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons.”

He narrows his eyes, hands tightening on Steve’s shoulders. The metal of his left hand is solid and unyielding as it grips onto Steve’s shoulder, and they’re pressed so close together that Steve can feel the heat radiating from his body. Bucky has one leg pressed right up against Steve’s – poised to take his legs out if he tries to run, Steve realizes, probably out of habit more than anything else.

And all at once, Steve feels a hot flush of heat creeping up the back of his neck.

_Oh God_ , Steve thinks, pure mortification crawling up his insides as he realizes what’s going on. As he realizes how his body is responding to this; to Bucky’s hands holding him in place, to the closeness of his body against Steve’s. It’s inappropriate and unacceptable and _so_ not the time, and Steve fights the urge to squirm under Bucky’s grip.

Bucky isn’t done talking, though.

“After everything – _everything_ – we’ve been through, Steve, I am _not_ losing you to some stupid-ass death wish,” Bucky finishes, eyes burning with emotion and hands still holding him tight.

And that’s a little unfair, Steve thinks, but it’s hardly something he wants to mince words about right now. He nods his head sharply, swallowing hard and wanting very badly to divert Bucky’s attention to something else.

“Okay,” says Steve, his voice sounding slightly strangled to his own ears. He fidgets under Bucky’s hands, feeling awkward and overheated and trying very hard not to let on just how much their position is affecting him right now. His brow furrows, and he fights the urge to look down at the ground. “Yeah, I’ll – I’ll try to be smarter about it, I promise.”

There’s a beat of silence, uncomfortable and drawn-out and Steve practically holding his breath.

And then Bucky blinks, pulls back a little. Glancing Steve up and down quickly, as though seeing him for the first time. A small wrinkle creases his brow. For a few moments, Bucky just stares openly at him, lips slightly parted.

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Steve braces himself for the fallout; sets his jaw and steels himself for the worst of it. It’ll be over soon, Steve thinks. Then they can pretend it never happened; can gloss right over it and go back to fighting like before.

And then –

“Huh,” Bucky murmurs quietly, catching Steve’s gaze and holding it for a long second. He’s still so close, so _solid_ , and it makes Steve feel vulnerable in a way that’s more than a little pleasant. The flush of heat up Steve’s neck is spreading to the rest of his body, his face screwed up in pained mortification – not at his body’s reaction so much as how _inappropriate_ it is right now. His cheeks feel hot.

This is a serious conversation, Steve _knows_ that. He should move away, should make some excuse. He shouldn’t be –

He squirms a little under Bucky’s hands without meaning to, and then slowly – experimentally – Bucky increases the pressure on his shoulders. Leans in where he’s got Steve pinned up against the wall, _keeping_ him there with just a little bit more force. With just a little bit more ruthlessness.

A choked-off little noise escapes Steve’s throat when he does it, the _deliberateness_ with which he’s being held down going straight between his legs. 

Bucky cocks his head to one side.

“You like this,” says Bucky flatly, leaning in close so that he can look Steve hard in the eyes. His eyes flick down Steve’s bulky frame, and when he meets Steve’s gaze again his eyes are narrowed slightly. Not dangerous, per se, just – thoughtful. Considering.

When he speaks again, Bucky’s voice is very soft.

“You didn’t used to like this,” he finishes after a moment, uncertain and intent and demanding an answer to a question he hasn’t actually asked out loud.

And Steve knows that, strictly speaking, Bucky isn’t talking about sex. Not really.

They hadn’t done all that much before they both woke up in the future; nothing outside of quiet hands in the dark back when they were younger, Bucky’s breath hot on the back of Steve’s neck and _what’re friends for, right?_ ghosting against the shell of his ear. Those nights had been infrequent and devastating and, if he’s being honest with himself, the source of most of Steve’s guilty adolescent fantasies –but it wasn’t as though they had ever done enough for Bucky to really get a handle on what Steve did and didn’t like.

No; Bucky’s talking about the things that Steve used to hate in general. Being shoved around, being told what to do. Getting manhandled and jostled by all the people who were bigger than him; being reminded of just how insignificant the world thought him to be. Bucky had learned real quick when they were kids that there was a limit to how much he could lord his size over Steve without him getting irritable and tetchy, shrugging his way out of embraces and touches because he didn’t like feeling as though he was being patronized.

But this…  

“It’s not like it used to be,” says Steve haltingly, licking his lips and trying not to shiver when he sees Bucky’s watchful eyes flicker down to catch the movement. “I’m not –”

Part of him wants to say _I’m not little anymore_ , but that’s not even really it.

Ever since the serum, it’s been…. hard, relating to people the same way he used to. He still feels like a bull in a china shop half the time, and the knowledge that he could easily hurt someone by accident is always there at the back of his mind. Steve still remembers the unreal dysphoria of his first day in this new body: shocky and reeling and trying so hard to get himself under control. The certainty that he was going to break something – _hurt_ someone – without meaning to.

Steve has known Bucky as the Winter Soldier; has faced him when he had been trying with all his might to bring Steve down. He has fought Bucky at his most ruthless, his most frenzied, his most coldly efficient; knows that the two of them can hold their own against each other even when the stakes are that high.

It won’t ever get like that again. Bucky would never hurt him like that, not when he has a choice in the matter. 

And yet…

Steve can’t quite wrap his head around it, but there’s something about the knowledge that Bucky _could_ hurt him if he wanted to, but that he _chooses_ to touch Steve gently instead that makes his vision go a little white at the edges. That makes his breath catch in his throat.

He still feels far too big and broad pushed up against the wall like this, but it’s… different with Bucky pinning him down. With the knowledge that Steve could probably get away, if he tried hard enough, but that it would be a real challenge. That Bucky would make it difficult.

Bucky could bruise him if he wanted to; could pin him down, could stand up to Steve straining against his touch, and there’s something about that that makes Steve feel so real and human that it makes him want to _squirm_.

He swallows hard.

“It’s different now,” says Steve at last, the words feeling weak and insufficient in his mouth.

He’s never been good at talking about this, has never understood how people can _say_ these things out loud without getting choked-up and stupid about it. It’s not like he’s done this with a whole lot of people, after all, and there’s a large part of his brain that still doesn’t know how this whole thing _works_.

Even when Bucky had asked him straight-out a few weeks ago, nose pressed into the crook of Steve’s neck and metal hand tracing Steve’s jaw and _what do you like, Steve? what is it you want?_ whispered low and hot against his skin like a secret, Steve hadn’t been able to do much more than choke out a few strangled half-answers to appease him.

“Makes me feel more real, I guess,” Steve finishes awkwardly once the silence has become so heavy it’s almost painful. He tries to think of something else to say, but the words won’t come. He just has to stand there, heart in his throat and the evidence of just how much he really does like this becoming increasingly evident between his legs.

After a long moment, Bucky narrows his eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky says, sudden and abrupt, and there’s something oddly insistent in the way he says it.  

Without even thinking about it, Steve shakes his head.

“You won’t,” Steve assures him – and then blinks in confusion when Bucky just gives him a deeply unhappy look, because he _means_ it. Knows that Bucky would never willingly hurt him with a certainty that goes right down to his bones.

For a second Steve pulls back further against the wall, shifts away; worries that it’s too much, too fast. That it’s pushing Bucky one step too far. He opens his mouth to say _hey, it’s fine, no big deal, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to_ – before something _shifts_ subtly in Bucky’s expression, and all at once Steve understands.

“Bucky, I don’t _want_ you to hurt me,” Steve says softly instead, giving his head a little shake as he feels something clench up in his chest. “Hey. I wouldn’t let you, Buck. I promise.”

A jagged spike of _something_ breaks through Bucky’s hardened expression like cracking glass; a curl at the corner of his lip, a flash of some unknown emotion in his eyes. And all at once Steve feels like the world’s biggest jerk, because suddenly he can see what this must look like from Bucky’s perspective: that this is just one more way for Steve to throw himself into danger. Another way to get himself hurt without ever having to be the one doing the hurting.

It makes Steve’s heart ache to know that Bucky still sees himself that way: as a source of pain and danger above all else.

He rushes to explain. 

“Look, it’s not… it’s not that I want to be hurt, all right?” says Steve, because they’re in too deep to just drop it at this point. He lets out a laugh, giving Bucky a lopsided smile that’s more than a little bit forced. “You know I get enough of that as it is.”

His words make Bucky’s hands tighten spasmodically around his shoulders, and the movement makes Steve aware in a not altogether unpleasant way that Bucky is _still holding him in place_. He swallows unsteadily.

“I think it’s just… not being in charge. Letting you take the wheel for a bit. Knowing that you’re real, that I can… I dunno, touch you without breaking you.” Steve shrugs helplessly, because it sounds like such an inadequate explanation when he says it out loud like that. “I just like it, I guess. We… we don’t have to do anything about it if you don’t want to.”

For a few long seconds, Bucky just stares at him without speaking. There’s a hard expression on his face, eyes steely and unwavering as he looks at Steve from beneath stray strands of hair.

There’s something almost _calculating_ in the way Bucky’s looking at him, Steve realizes distantly. Considering; assessing. As though he’s weighing the value of a mission rather than having a serious (and absolutely mortifying) conversation. Steve can practically _hear_ the gears turning in his friend’s head, but he’s damned if he can figure out what he’s actually thinking.

Steve frowns.

“I mean it, Buck, it’s not important,” he begins, fully prepared to keep harping on this until Bucky understands that he _means_ it –

—and then all at once Bucky’s expression just… _changes_.

The hard lines of his face are smoothing out into something relaxed and easy and just a little bit cocky, a spark of something downright playful coming into his eyes. There’s a smirk unfurling over his lips, the quirk of it tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes going from _unreadable_ to _inviting_ in the span of about a second. It’s as fast and thorough as though someone has flicked a switch, and in the back of his mind Steve feels a prickle of disquiet at the abruptness of the change.

 And then Bucky’s loosening his grip, smoothing his hands over Steve’s broad shoulders in a way that’s more soothing than it is violent. His touch is lazy, relaxed – but with a hint of something quietly unyielding beneath it all.

He leans in closer.

“S’okay,” Bucky murmurs quietly, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the brush of Bucky’s lips against his ear, his breath hot against the side of Steve’s neck. There’s a hint of a grin in Bucky’s voice; amused affection and confidence and something heated beneath it all, a familiar tone from so long ago that makes Steve’s heart clench and his cock twitch helplessly in his jeans. “S’okay, Stevie,” he says, and Steve can _feel_ the curl of Bucky’s lips against his throat when he smiles. His metal thumb is rubbing circles on Steve’s shoulder. “M’gonna take care of you.”

And oh god.

Oh god, because it’s Bucky, it’s _Bucky_ , and Steve can’t stifle a strangled little groan because right now he sounds just like Bucky the way he used to be; Bucky before the fall, before the war. As though the words have been dredged up out of a memory or a dream and served right up to Steve on a silver platter.

Steve can’t help but nod a little too enthusiastically at that, to arch into Bucky’s touch because he _wants_ this. Wants this so badly he can almost taste it; wants it so much he doesn’t know how to think about anything else.

Bucky’s mouth is trailing along his jaw, pressing his lips quickly against the side of Steve’s mouth – and then Bucky’s kissing him, hard and thorough and entirely unstoppable, and Steve doesn’t think about anything at all for a very long time.

It’s not cruel but it’s hardly gentle either, Bucky’s mouth demanding against his own in a way that they’ve never really been with each other before now. Steve sags back bonelessly against the wall, going loose-limbed and willing, letting himself relax fully into Bucky’s touch. Bucky’s kissing him as though he’s trying to _prove_ something, and it’s enough to make Steve’s whole body buzz with a desperate eagerness that fills up his mind like radio static.

Body pressed heavily against his, Bucky opens Steve’s mouth with his own in a way that’s just on the edge of being too rough; nips at Steve’s bottom lip and makes a low sound in the back of his throat when Steve can’t hold back a choked-off gasp in response. He grinds their hips together – once, twice – and it’s enough to makes Steve’s toes curl inside his shoes.

There’s something vicious about Bucky like this; a ruthlessness that’s overwhelming when directed towards creating pleasure, and it’s all Steve can do to keep _breathing_.

“Steve,” Bucky hums under his breath, his voice rough and his mouth warm as it ghosts against Steve’s lips. Steve _shudders_ , reaches up automatically to wrap his hands around Bucky’s waist in response –

— and feels an electric jolt rush through his body when Bucky _growls_ low in his throat at the movement. In a move that’s as fast as it is brutal, Bucky’s hands squeeze tight and _slam_ Steve’s upper arms against the wall; keeping him pinned, very effectively stopping him from touching Bucky back.

And this really should feel silly, Steve thinks through the fog of _yes_ and _please_ and _more, Bucky, god_ that’s stirring in his chest, because Steve is still as big and broad as ever. Bulky and untouchable – only he’s _not_ anymore, he’s _not_ , because Bucky’s hands are real and firm as they hold him down. His breathing is heavy and his metal hand is squeezing Steve’s arm so hard to might even leave bruises, and Steve is so turned out right now that he can barely process what’s happening.

Then Bucky’s kissing him again, inescapable and all-consuming, and it’s easy for Steve to lose himself in the slow burn of pleasure building up in his stomach. In the way Bucky’s two-day stubble feels when it scrapes against his chin, the edge of his mouth; the way the lamplight throws shadows over the angles of Bucky’s face.

After a minute or two Bucky’s hand – the one that’s calloused and warm and human, so _human_ – snakes upwards until it’s wrapped around the back of Steve’s neck, cradling him and pulling him closer all at once.

“C’mere,” says Bucky quietly, talking a step backwards and very intentionally dragging Steve with him.

When they get to the bedroom – Steve’s bedroom, technically, but it’s the one they’ve both been sleeping in for the past few months – all it takes is a look from Bucky, eyes dragging from the top of Steve’s head to the soles of his shoes, for Steve to get with the picture and start taking his clothes off. It’s an off-kilter interlude, Steve awkwardly kicking off his shoes and struggling out of his jeans while all Bucky has to do is shuck off his pyjamas.

Bucky might be the one who gets naked first, the glint of his metal arm standing out sharply against the smooth canvas of the rest of his skin, but Steve knows without a doubt that he’s the one who feels more exposed. His skin is already sweaty and a little grimy from the fight, and a big part of him can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that he’s gone from fighting for his life to fighting with Bucky to _this_ over the course of a few hours.

Across from him Bucky is standing hard and muscular in the dim light, his cock dusky and hard between his legs, and Steve can’t help but stare at him with slightly parted lips.

“Want you on the bed,” says Bucky darkly, and even though it’s not exactly an order Steve hurries to comply right away all the same. Climbs on top of it and lies on his back for want of any better ideas, noticing the way his muscles ache and strain from the fight for only a few seconds before the sight of Bucky, dark-eyed and smirking and completely in control as he climbs onto the bed, wipes the thought right out of his mind.  

There’s a curling twist of anticipation in Steve’s stomach when Bucky crawls on top of him, graceful and powerful and contained in a way that he never used to be before. It’s a deadly kind of beauty, a hint of the Winter Soldier that still shines through sometimes, but the sight of him still manages to make Steve feel lightheaded nonetheless.

Bucky doesn’t waste any time, sliding down Steve’s body with single-minded purpose. He presses open-mouthed kisses against Steve’s chest, against the flatness of his stomach – against the sharp lines of his hips leading down to the space between his legs. Steve sucks in a breath, tries to stifle the urge to squirm under his touch.

When Bucky’s mouth is only a few inches away from Steve’s cock, he pauses – before looking up and giving Steve a considering, thoughtful look. He reaches up and wraps his right hand around the girth of Steve’s cock almost absent-mindedly, giving him a firm stroke as he holds Steve’s gaze.

“Did I ever tell you that I used to think about this?” Bucky asks, his voice carefully neutral and his hand still moving slowly, and Steve’s brain shorts out for a moment as he tries to process that statement at the same time as the _good so good god yes_ touch of Bucky’s hand on him.

He’s never been a talker in bed, not with Bucky and not with women. Not with anyone, although it’s not like he’s had all that many opportunities. Putting what he wants into words is too hard, too _much_. A great way to put his foot in his mouth, to say something real stupid at the worst possible moment. 

“You – what?” Steve asks, caught off guard and flustered and his breath hitching violently in his throat when Bucky strokes him again.

“During the war,” Bucky elaborates, licking his lips, and Steve’s torn between how good his hand feels and the urge to pay rapt attention to the things that he’s saying. All of Bucky’s memories are precious, but the ones he brings up on his own – freely given, unprompted – are the ones that Steve holds onto the tightest during the bad days. “Before you got there. Back when I was just starting to figure myself out.”

His hand is still moving, rhythmic and firm as though he’s doing it without thinking, and Steve bites his lip to stifle a groan. He flexes his hands at the building waves of sensation, feels his fingers drag and pull against the bed sheets as he does so.

“Used to think about making you feel good,” Bucky continues, soft and intent and all of his attention riveted to Steve’s face. “When I was on the road, when I was at base camp. Thought about having you all splayed out underneath me, all little and sharp and pretty as hell.”

And Steve really can’t hold back a groan at that, because _God_ , there’s something about the idea of Bucky wanting him the way he was before the serum that makes frantic _need_ shiver through Steve’s body. Bucky looks up at Steve for the first time in a while at the sound, furrowing his brows and holding Steve’s gaze with an _look_ on his face that Steve doesn’t understand, that he can’t quite wrap his head around.

His hand falters on Steve’s cock, and for a second Bucky just _stares_ at him without speaking.

“Wanna make you feel _so much_ ,” says Bucky, quiet and intense and utterly serious, and for some reason the words sound starkly honest in a way that makes Steve blink. 

But then he’s moving, closing the distance and sucking down Steve’s cock like he was born doing it, and the part of Steve’s brain that knows how to think critically is abruptly switched off. 

It’s not as though Bucky’s done this all that much; he might’ve had a fair amount of experience before the war, but with the glaring exception of Steve, every last bit of it had been with girls. Being on the giving end of a suck job has been new to both of them; it’s something they’ve talked about a little before now, cards on the table and a shared resolve to figure the new stuff out together as they go.

Steve’s pretty grateful that Bucky’s such a quick study, though, because right now his mouth feels so good that Steve wants to _cry_. The whole world has narrowed down to the wet slide of Bucky’s mouth around his cock, lips stretched tight around him as he does a damn fine job at taking him as deep as he can go. 

Steve reaches out blindly for something to hold onto, ends up with his hands fisted in the sheets as his eyes flutter closed. It feels overwhelming, _consuming_ –as though Bucky’s deliberately hitting every one of his buttons over and over. Swallowing hard around him and tonguing at his slit on the upstrokes, like he managed to commit all things Steve likes best to memory. 

After a few shaky moments Steve forces his eyes open, glances down between his legs – and he can feel his lips parting as he drinks in the sight because it’s _obscene_ ,  the way Bucky looks like this; naked and hard and curled over top of him as he sucks Steve down. He’s setting a hard pace; fast and dirty, going as deep as he can and not letting Steve catch his breath for a minute. When Bucky pulls off just enough to suck long and hard at the head, Steve can’t help his hips jerking up off the mattress at how goddamn _good_ it feels –

—and almost as soon as he does, Steve feels brutal hands grab at his hips and _force_ him flat on his back again, keeping him firmly pinned to the mattress.

Steve yelps, either because of the shock of the touch or because Bucky’s metal hand is unexpectedly cold against his right hip, but he forgets all about it when he hears and _feels_ Bucky growl low in his throat, mouth stretched around him and his throat working away at his cock. Until he glances down, breathing hard, and sees the way Bucky is looking at him from between escaped strands of hair. Eyes gleaming and heavily-lidded and intent, so _intent_ , utterly focused on making Steve stay in place and take what he’s given, and all at once it hits Steve that this is too much, he’s too _close_.

“Bucky,” Steve chokes out, hands fisting in the sheets. “Bucky, I’m gonna –”

The rest of his sentence devolves into an unintelligible garble of words when Bucky _moans_ loudly and pointedly around his cock, redoubling his efforts instead of pulling away, keeping Steve pinned down as he relentlessly sucks and bobs and swirls his tongue and tightens his grip on Steve’s hips, and then –

And then Steve’s coming, head thrown back and hands fisted in the sheets and straining up into Bucky’s touch, white-hot pleasure shooting up his spine and heat radiating out from his belly. Bucky’s mouth working him through it, mouthing and swirling his tongue over the tip until every last shudder has been wrung out of his body. Swallowing him down, taking him all in.

He’s left sprawled on the bed in a shuddering mess, heart pounding in his chest and his face too hot, and when Bucky pulls his mouth away he can’t stop his hips from twitching violently at the sensation overload. Steve barely even registers that, for the very first time since they’ve been together, Bucky must’ve swallowed.

The bed creaks a little as Bucky crawls over for him, reaches for something on the bedside table, but Steve barely notices over the roaring in his own ears. He glances down at himself, sees that his cock is still mostly hard even as it’s glistening with his own orgasm and Bucky’ spit – a side-effect of the serum, and one that Steve’s always been a little self-conscious about.

The bed shifts again, Bucky moving back down between his legs. Brings a few of his fingers to his mouth and _sucks_ , idly tossing what Steve belatedly realizes is a bottle of lube onto the bed. Steve doesn’t even have time to catch his breath before he feels the spit-slicked warmth of flesh-and-blood fingers trailing up his thigh – and then slowly, deliberately, pressing against his entrance.

His whole body stiffens and clenches, an instinctual surprise he hasn’t learned to overcome yet, eyes darting down to stare at where Bucky is once again settled in the space between his legs. Bucky’s eyes are heavily-lidded, the look on his face absolutely _sinful_. 

“M’not done with you yet,” says Bucky huskily, his voice rough and heavy with intent – before he begins to slowly but surely push his index finger inside, and Steve’s lost to it almost as soon as it begins.

Time slows down into an achingly drawn-out slide of strung together moments, after that; one after the other in a ruthless onslaught that leaves him out of breath and overwhelmed and utterly helpless to do anything other than what Bucky wants.

He takes Steve apart with his fingers; gets them slick with lube and works them inside Steve one by one. It’s a dragging touch, warm and calloused and achingly thorough, stretching him open until Steve’s so full it feels like he might shake apart at the seams.

Bucky doesn’t let Steve touch him in return; doesn’t even let Steve get a hand around his cock. He catches his hands and yanks them away whenever he tries, only getting more resolute and brutal in his responses the more Steve tries to reach out to him. And Steve _wants_ to make Bucky feel good, he _does_ – but it’s hard to keep arguing when he keeps getting distracted by the too-full stretch of Bucky’s fingers inside of him. The brush of Bucky’s lips against his inner thigh; the cool brush of his metal hand stroking along the sensitive skin of his hips.

He makes Steve come for a second time like that; clenching up around Bucky’s fingers with choked-off sounds on his lips and his eyes squeezed shut, the warming touch of his metal hand moving leisurely over Steve’s cock as he spends himself all over his stomach.

It leaves him dazed and reeling, a sticky mess cooling on his skin, but Bucky doesn’t even give him a minute before he’s murmuring to Steve. Saying something low and heated as he guides Steve with his hands, and before long Steve’s curled on his hands and knees with three thick fingers sliding inside of him. 

At first it’s _too much too much oh God too much_ , Steve’s hips jerking away instinctively to escape the burn of oversensitivity. He feels raw and stretched-out and _overwhelmed_ , shuddering and breathing hard and silently grateful that Bucky can’t see his face from this position. Red-faced and shuddering, hair damp with exertion, struggling to accept the sparking pulsing _throb_ of it as Bucky pushes him even further past what he’d thought to be his body’s limits.

Determination wins out in the end, though. Bucky’s fingers are methodical and thorough, wringing little shivers and jolts of pleasure out of him past the point he’d thought it to be possible. Discomfort dissolves into a renewed need that burns in the pit of his stomach, spreading outwards and getting bigger and bigger, filling him up and making him hard and he wants it, he wants it, he _wants_ it –

Bucky just keeps up his pace, meets Steve beat for beat –and then there’s the smooth metal of his left hand sliding along the small of Steve’s back. It’s a soothing touch, one that stands out sharply against the staccato thrust of the fingers of his other hand pounding into Steve’s ass, and he has no idea which touch it is that sends him over the edge. Untouched and gasping and seeing goddamn _stars_ , the orgasm ripped out of him with a brutal suddenness that makes his cock ache as he comes. That makes him clench tight around Bucky’s fingers, struggling to keep his arms from giving out from under him. 

“ _There_ we go,” Bucky murmurs warmly once he’s finished stroking Steve through the aftershocks, and Steve can’t help but choke out a weak laugh at that because he can practically _see_ the crooked little half-smile in his voice. His skin is prickling with sweat and there’s come all over his stomach and the sheets, and Steve winces a little when Bucky slowly draws his fingers out of him. “ _That’s_ it.”

The emptiness of it is sharp and hollow and _devastating_ , and even then – when Steve’s been fucked half out of his mind, when it’s almost impossible to hold onto any of his thoughts before they slide out of his field of vision – Steve can’t stop fixating on the raw _physicality_ of it. The touch of Bucky’s hands against him, _inside_ of him. How empty he feels without Bucky touching him anymore.

It’s a connection to the world around him; one that can’t be shaken off no matter how hard he writhes or twists away, one that keeps him weighed down and anchored and utterly taken care of.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve croaks unsteadily, breathing hard and his voice snagging a little on the word, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything else. Just hangs his head and lets it linger there between them, a recognition and an acknowledgement and a word to cling to when it feels as though there isn’t anything else to say.

For a stark moment Steve wonders if he’s reached his limit, if there’s any way he can keep feeling _good_ with how wrung-out and limp his body feels now –

And then there’s a blunt pressure nudging against his hole, something hard and slicked and bigger than fingers pressing hard against the puckered skin, and Steve groans so loudly he has to fight the urge to bury his face in his hands.

Behind him, Bucky lets out a fond hum of laughter.

“That feel good?” comes Bucky’s voice, his breath catching in his throat but otherwise sounding completely sure of himself. He rocks his hips forward – just a little, just the slightest movement that makes his cock rub against the rim – and Steve can’t help but push back against the sweet pressure of it, the heat in his face starting to spread into a full body blush in a burning creep down his chest.

And yeah, in the couple of times they’ve done this before it’s been made pretty damn clear which one of them gets off on this part the best. It’s not usually something that Steve feels comfortable asking for, but right now his skin is burning and his body is _desperate_ for it, and Steve just doesn’t have it in him to be self-conscious about this right now.

Steve tries to say something out loud – _yeah, I like that_ or _you can do it, I want you to_ or even _c’mon,_ _Bucky, please_ – but all that comes out is a low whine at the back of his throat.

Apparently, though, it’s all that Bucky needs. He holds Steve by the hips with one hand, positions himself with the other – and then he’s inching forwards, pushing through the natural resistance of Steve’s body as he slowly pushes inside.

The sudden thickness of him is enough to make Steve gasp out loud, hands tightening in the sheets as he struggles not to lose focus and let his arms give out beneath him. For a second his stomach twists, his whole body tensing up against the immensity of the intrusion, hard and thick inside of him, so much _more_ than fingers – before he takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax around it. Like powering through busted lips in back alleys and gritting his teeth through bullet wounds: pushing through the discomfort because what comes afterwards is worth it.

The pressure of Bucky’s cock is a slow but inexorable burn as it pushes inside of him with single-minded purpose. Stretching him out and filling him up, and Steve’s so oversensitive he can barely _stand_ it. It’s _too much too much_ and _oh god, just right_ all at once, pleasure with a sharp edge of rawness and pain that makes his arms shake and his cock twitch where it’s hanging between his legs. He spreads his legs a little without meaning to as Bucky pushes in, hissing as the movement drives Bucky deeper inside of him.

It’s overwhelming and so good it _hurts_ , and Bucky lets out a soft little grunt when he finally bottoms out.

There’s a moment where he just lingers like that, buried in Steve’s body right up to the hilt – before he rocks his hips and Steve _gasps_ , spasming around him in a way that makes Bucky let out a satisfied groan. He starts to fuck him then, pulling out and _pushing back in_ in a way that makes twisted-up pleasure twist in Steve’s stomach, a dragging touch that tugs and pulls at him in just the right way. So much better than fingers because he knows that Bucky can _feel_ this, that it feels _good_ for him.

Steve’s arms are shaking beneath him, not because of the physical strain but because it’s so _much_ and he can’t give up under the onslaught, can’t let himself fall –

“Down,” Bucky orders, as though he can see inside Steve’s head. He doesn’t slow his pace as he says it, deep and hard and so fucking _thorough_ , and Steve’s mind snags on the word like fabric on a nail. He hesitates, arms shaking and toes curling and not entirely sure what Bucky wants him to do. “ _Down_ ,” Bucky tells him again after a second, but this time Steve can feel him moving, curling himself tighter over Steve’s back, reaching out –

Cold metal wraps around the back of his neck, _pushing_ Steve down into the mattress so that his arms have no other option than to give out beneath him. Knees spread wide and Bucky’s hand holding him down as he drives his cock _deep_ inside of him, and Steve doesn’t know if it’s the position change or being held down that does it but the move makes hot pleasure spark up Steve’s spine all the same.

He groans long and loud, buries his face in his arms and clenches tight around Bucky’s cock and _moans_.

It’s enough to make Bucky let out an unsteady laugh behind him.

“You like that?” Bucky asks, flexing his metal fingers around the back of Steve’s neck. Bucky’s hand is a weapon but Steve doesn’t feel afraid; just desperate and aching and so turned on it hurts, writhing a little underneath him. Bucky thrusts in a little harder, dragging his hips and hitting a spot inside of Steve that makes him see _stars_. Even though Bucky’s breathing is hard and beleaguered, Steve can _hear_ the sly grin in his voice when he speaks again. “You like that, sweetheart?”

— and _oh_.

Oh, _fuck_.

The term of endearment flows so easily off Bucky’s lips that Steve knows it must be muscle memory, must’ve been something Bucky used to say to a dozen different girls back before the war, but something inside of him lights on fire when he says it all the same. If he wasn’t so fucked-out it would all be over right there, Steve knows. He can feel it pooling in his stomach and sparking in his fingertips as it is, _sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart_ –

He moans and grinds his ass back onto Bucky’s cock, but Bucky just holds him down all the harder. He’s fucking him in earnest now, hips snapping forward. Ramming himself into Steve’s ass with every thrust.

“Can you feel that, Steve?” comes Bucky’s voice from behind him, breathing hard – but with a note of something imploring in his voice that makes Steve struggle to pay attention even as his body tightens around him with every thrust. “How good it is?”

Steve nods his head sloppily against the mattress in response, feels Bucky’s metal finger stroke the back of his neck as he fucks him hard and deep. He’s getting faster now, speeding up, and every neuron is firing in Steve’s brain, every muscle aching, the pressure building inside almost too big to hold onto anymore.

When Bucky worms his flesh and blood hand underneath Steve’s body and wraps it around his cock, Steve’s whole body spasms.

“C’mon,” says Bucky, audibly gritting his teeth as he keeps on fucking him, the slap of skin against skin even more obscene as he speeds up. His hand is moving on Steve’s cock, hot and tight and jerking him in tandem as he pounds into him, and it doesn’t even matter that it’s a bad angle because Bucky’s cock keeps hitting _that spot_ inside him, metal hand clenching and unclenching around Steve’s neck and he’s _so close so close so close_. “C’mon, sweetheart, you can do it, I’m right here, I’m right _here_ –”

And then Steve’s stomach is tensing up and he’s clenching up around Bucky’s cock, and it’s like going over a waterfall. Letting himself fall over the edge as jagged pleasure shoots through his whole body, Bucky’s hands gripping him tight as he fucks him through it. Lips fallen open and hips stuttering helplessly as he squeezes his eyes shut and _comes_ so hard the whole world goes white.

 

\--

 

When Steve finally comes back to himself – maybe a few seconds later, maybe a full minute, he can’t be sure – he’s in a sprawled in a crumpled heap on the bed, arms a mess around his head and his face pressing into the mattress cheek-first. The only reason his ass is still in the air is because Bucky’s gripping him tight to keep him there, the flesh and blood hand squeezing his hips hard enough to bruise while the metal one keeps on pinning him down by the neck.

Bucky’s still fucking into him from behind but Steve can barely feel it anymore, his body so limp and wrung-out that each thrust sends him rocking forward almost uncontrollably. It’s not long before Bucky pounds into him one last time and stays there, metal hand spasming on the back of Steve’s neck and pressing him down _hard_ into the mattress as he spends himself inside Steve’s  limp body.

Distantly, something inside of Steve feels pleased when it happens; content in the knowledge it was _him_ that did that. That made Bucky feel good that way.

Only a second ago it had felt as though his skin was on fire – but it’s cooling off now, the sweat on the back of his knees and on his chest suddenly prickling in the cool air of the room. A sudden pressure lifts up as Bucky removes his metal hand from the back of Steve’s neck, and it’s only when Steve raises his head from the mattress and pulls in a deep gulp of breath of air that he realizes just how much their position had constricted his ability to breathe. It almost feels like coming again, the sudden rush of air into his lungs.

For a moment Bucky strokes his hand over Steve’s ass, lingering on the place where he gripped him hard enough to bruise, before he gently pulls out.  The sudden emptiness makes Steve shudder without meaning to, tightening up around the space where Bucky’s cock used to be.

His legs give out from under him as soon as Bucky’s gone, and all at once Steve realizes how _sore_ he is. In good ways, yeah – but his muscles have also seemed to choose this moment to remind him that he was _fighting for his life_ only a few hours ago. He hadn’t noticed so much in the moment, but now the awareness of just how exhausted and sore he is seems to spread until it’s the only thing he can see. The only thing he can think about.

The bed shifts beneath him, and after a moment Steve realizes it’s because Bucky has crawled up the mattress to lie down next to him. There’s a sticky mess against his stomach, smeared on the sheets; a dampness that’s getting more tacky and stiff by the second, but Steve can’t seem to bring himself to care.

After a moment Bucky nudges Steve onto his back with both hands, then wraps his real arm around Steve’s shoulders so that Steve’s all curled up against his side. It reminds him a little of the old romance movies, the ones that would always end with the leading lady all pillowed up against the leading man’s chest. That’s all right though; Steve doesn’t mind how he’s held as long as the two of them get to stay here together for a while. 

His eyes are still closed but that’s all right, that’s okay. Bucky won’t mind if he dozes for a little while. They can clean up later. Maybe they’ll sleep in Bucky’s room tonight.

“I’m going to start joining you on field missions again,” says Bucky simply after a few minutes of exhausted silence, stroking his fingers absent-mindedly through the short hairs at the back of Steve’s neck.

It’s been long enough that Steve has almost fallen entirely asleep. He nods unthinkingly against Bucky’s chest for a second – but he stops as soon as the words register properly, eyes flying open and body tensing up before he realizes that it hurts to do so, muscles aching and even the dim light of the bedroom far too harsh against his eyes.

“What?” Steve asks disconcertedly, blinking hard and worming his way weakly out of Bucky’s embrace. He sits up as best he can, pulls back so that he can look his friend in the eyes. “You… no, Buck, you don’t have to do that. You’ve… you’ve been resting, _recovering_ –”

“I’ve had plenty of time to recover,” says Bucky smoothly, cutting Steve off with what seems like no effort at all. Resolute and certain and completely sure of himself, and for the first time since going on his hands and knees Steve takes a moment to actually _look_ at the man who’s been fucking him for the past hour.

Some of the hair has fallen out of Bucky’s ponytail, the stands lying dark and messy against the sides of his face. There’s a gleam of sweat on his muscled chest, a hint of an ebbing flush leaving his cheeks. Other than that, though, nothing about him is ruffled or uncertain. Bucky’s blue eyes are steady and his mouth is a straight line and the angles of his face are sharp and unyielding, and he’s giving Steve that same hardened look he used to give him back in the day. The one he always got on his face when he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was the one who was in the right.

Still holding his gaze, Bucky gives his head an almost imperceptible shake.

“I can’t stop you from charging into danger, Steve. I couldn’t do it in Brooklyn and I couldn’t do it during the war and I can’t do it now.” His eyes take on a hard gleam, his metal hand tightening a little where it’s fallen to rest on Steve’s arm. “But I’ve always been able to watch your back. And if the rest of your team can’t manage it? Then I’m just going to have to be there to do it for them.”

Steve stares at him, uncomprehending, for a long moment, trying and failing to think of something to say.

“You don’t…” Steve starts, but he cuts himself off, frowning. He takes a deep breath, struggling to find the words even though it still feels as though his brain might short out at any second.

“You don’t have to be the Winter Soldier for me,” Steve tries again after a minute, his voice quiet to his own ears. “Not if you don’t want to. I swear, you could go the rest of your life and never pick up another weapon again and it would be _fine_ , Buck. It would be okay. You don’t…” He trails off, swallowing hard as something thick and choked-off catches in his throat. “You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,” he finishes lamely, blinking too hard and not entirely sure where to go from there.

There is a long pause. 

And then slowly, carefully, Bucky takes the hand that has been resting on Steve’s arm – his metal hand, the one that isn’t smeared and dirtied with the evidence of everything they’ve just done – and rests it very gently on the side of Steve’s face. He gives Steve a long look, brushes his thumb absently against the smooth skin of Steve’s cheek.

“I will be whatever I have to be to keep you safe,” says Bucky eventually, full of seriousness and conviction, and his words ring with a kind of deep down honesty that makes Steve shiver for too many reasons to count. “From yourself as much as anyone else.” His eyes dart down to Steve’s mouth, and then he’s leaning in to press a quick kiss against the corner of Steve’s lips. It’s fast and soft, nothing sexual about it, and when he pulls back Steve can see the staunchness in his eyes. “S’not your call, Rogers, it’s mine. And I don’t intend to leave you on your own out there any longer.”

His words make Steve’s heart clench up a little in his chest – and then, like the shadow of ghost from a hundred lifetimes ago, all at once Steve can hear Peggy’s voice ringing in his head. Low and accented, strong as steel but deeply kind all at the same time, the words she’d said to him in the privacy of a blown-out bar in London with the shattered remnants of broken bottles and furniture all around their feet.

_Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice,_ she’d said, holding his gaze and refusing to let him look away. _He damn well must’ve thought you were worth it._

And part of Steve still wants to keep arguing anyways, wants to push his point and dig his heels into the ground and refuse to give up even an inch.

But every part of his body is worn out and on the brink of collapse, exhaustion tugging at his limbs and overstimulation still buzzing at the edges of his brain. He’s tired and sore and so well-fucked it hurts to move, and when Bucky slides his hand around to the back of Steve’s neck and tugs him down against his chest again Steve doesn’t try to put up a fight.

“All right,” says Steve after a moment, allowing himself to be held tight and guided into place. He settles his head against Bucky’s chest again, lets out a little huff of a laugh against his skin. “You win for now, soldier.”

“Damn right I do,” Bucky replies, but Steve can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. After a moment Bucky reaches up and slides his metal hand into Steve’s hair again, running his fingers through the short strands as though the admission never happened in the first place.

Steve blinks slowly, his body feeling heavier and heavier where he’s slumped against Bucky’s chest. 

“We need to get cleaned up,” Steve mumbles sleepily, unable to stop his eyes from fully drifting shut as he speaks. Bucky’s chest is hard and solid but comfortable all the same, his body warm and the pressure of his fingers running through Steve’s hair making him feel wanted, protected. Safe. “We’re...” His sentence is cut off by a large, drawn-out yawn. It’s so big and long it almost makes him lose track of the sentence, makes exhausted tears sting at the corners of his eyes.

 “… we’re pretty gross,” Steve finishes eventually, the words barely more than a murmur against Bucky’s chest.

“Five more minutes and we’ll go get ready for bed,” says Bucky fondly, his voice drifting down from somewhere above Steve’s head. His metal fingers stroke sweet and gentle through Steve’s hair. “Sleep. I’ll get us up in a minute.”

The words aren’t even out of his mouth before Steve feels himself sliding sideways into unconsciousness, snug against Bucky’s body and with the touch of his fingers in Steve’s hair.

His second to last thought before he drifts off to sleep is to wonder if maybe talking about it isn’t so bad if it ends up like this; curled up warm and snug against Bucky’s chest, sore and content and so far from untouchable Steve can’t stop his lips from twitching into a smile. That maybe it’s possible think about the years when he was painfully alone as long as Bucky’s around to remind him that his life isn’t like that anymore.

His last thought is to blearily wonder whether that was Bucky’s plan in the first place. 

And then the world is slipping away from him, greying out around the edges and receding into the distance as Steve falls into a deep and exhausted sleep.

 

 

 

**The End**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you have enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment; I would truly appreciate it.
> 
> You can also feel free to join me over on my [tumblr](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com), where my Captain America obsession remains shamelessly on display for all the world to see.
> 
> (Also, full disclosure: I wrote the last position that Bucky and Steve are in while blatantly referencing **[this](http://stereowire.tumblr.com/post/98217745543/hey-who-asked-for-a-drawing-of-bucky-holding-steve)** piece of art by [stereowire](http://stereowire.tumblr.com/). There are a few minor differences -- the muzzle, Bucky's hair being down instead of up -- but other than that it's pretty much 100% on the money as well as being _outrageously NSFW so please beware_. Many thanks to stereowire for drawing such incredible and inspirational artwork, because hot _damn_.)


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